body's own drugs
by when-the-music's-over
Summary: Sherlock knocked on the door of 221C- then John heard him leaping up the stairs. That's it? Was that how it was going to be from now on? If Sherlock said jump, John would jump. And do a few other things too- AU in which John is Sherlock's "booty call" :P
1. Prologue

_As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts  
>Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms<em>

Warmth in your eyes? Oh hell no! He's cold as a brick. He's a dick. Great. Now I'm rhyming.

_Was it love or fear of the cold that led us through the night?_

Definitely the fear of the cold. Fear of living on the streets would be even better. Love! Pfft!

_For every kiss your beauty trumped my doubt_

Well… yes. He sure as hell is a beauty. But I still doubt this was a good idea. It's been three months now and I'm the living proof that there is such a thing as regret. It's just lucky I don't have to do the 'walk of shame' through the streets every morning.

This is the story of John BAMF Watson. Just kidding. Right now I'm feeling like a pile of ash. In a dirty ashtray. On the counter of a filthy gay bar.

This is the story of John Watson being abused. Nooo, kidding again! Okay, let's be honest. Let's put the cards on the table.

I was alone. And I had no money whatsoever. And I desperately, _reeeaally_ desperately needed a place to stay, okay? I didn't know that it was going to come with sexual favours. It wasn't intended to be like that. But what can I say? You can't say no to a recovering cocaine addict. Why am I being so cynical? Well, I guess it's a defence mechanism I developed over the last three months. I don't remember having it in the army though… Huh - That has to make some kind of statement what this man has done to me!

But I didn't want this to turn out like it did, okay? You have to believe me! I didn't know what I was getting into. It's not like you can see it on his face. You can barely read anything from his face. I'm not even sure he has emotions, well other than… You know what I'm talking about! And now get your head out of the dirty underwear drawer! I mean, just look at him. Take a good long look. You can do it. I'm in the flat now, he won't bite you if I'm there. See these long black curls? The pale skin? The slender body and the extremely well tailored suits? They probably cost a fortune! I don't know where he gets the money from. Maybe his insane brother.

Well, that's him in all his glory. If he decides to put on clothes for a change. That's usually when he doesn't need me. Good God, now I really sound like a prostitute. Okay, let's make that sound less appalling… callboy, maybe?

_And my head told my heart_

For God's sake someone turn off the bloody radio already! Ah, see, that's better. I can't stand to listen to anymore heartbreak or lovey dovey crap or I'm going to drown myself. Yeah, I know it's not actually possible to drown yourself, I'm a doctor!

Okay, I guess your opinion of me just sank below sea level. Oh! He's an university graduate! He should know better! Well, you can get off your high horses ladies and gentlemen, because I simply don't give a fuck! It's just the way it is.

You wanna now how it all started out? You really wanna now? You're going to make me live through it again, aren't you?

Okay, let me start by telling you I was desperate. Oh, did I already mention that? Well, then let's get right to it.

…

John Watson, the ex-army doctor was sitting in a pub in the middle of London. It was loud and cramped and muggy. A typical saturday night. He didn't even know what he was doing here. He didn't have enough money to afford going to a restaurant and what was the point in eating alone anyway. Yet he was sitting here alone in a booth. Not even at the bar! He had been nursing the same Scotch since three hours, staring deeply into his alcoholy depths, trying to discover some values of life in it. Needless to say, he had had no luck. His landlord had told him last week that he had to move out by the end of the month. Today was the 23rd.

Now he was contemplating staying at his sister's place. The only thing they had in common was their homosexuality. And that didn't bear for good flatmates. The newspaper with the apartment listing was resting on the table. It had been laying there untouched since he had yanked it out of his pocket. He was never going to find a flat in London by the end of the week! The ones that he considered he couldn't afford, the ones he could afford came with an unbelievable eccentric flatmate with disputable personal hygiene habits. Most of them gave him a weird look when he told them he just came from Afghanistan. You can imagine what inappropriate and mostly left-winged questions followed. At the start, he even told them that he sometimes woke up screaming in the middle of the night. But that was his problem and they wouldn't have to bother about that. He didn't even know why the hell he was being so nice! He was sabotaging himself.

Yes, the dreams were still there. He was still limping around. He felt like his own grandfather with the goddamn cane.

Another sip on the Scotch, it had to last until midnight at least! His mind had drained out the noise around him. He had been doing that for a while now. It was a technique he had acquired in the war. It came in quiet handy when you had to patch up a man without painkillers if you were able to shut up his cries and the guns around you. But now… he was simply lost in his thoughts, his self-pity.

That's why he didn't notice until he lifted his head, that a tall man was standing beside him. John was startled by the sincere expression on the man's face. He was staring directly at him, he was barely a foot away from him. He could have reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder if he liked. It didn't help his overall appearance to be less creepy that he was wearing a long, black coat with the collar turned up. A blue scarf still wrapped around his neck even though it was temperatures of a summer day at the beach in the pub. But John had to admit, he was quite handsome.

"Evening. May I sit with you?" The stranger with indescribable cheekbones slid into the booth opposite to John without waiting for an answer.

"I'm Sherlock." He said, holding out his right hand, the other one wrapped around a glass of Scotch which obviously remained untouched. John shook his hand.

"Err… I'm John. Nice to meet you."

"I'm sorry, I seem to have shanghaied you into letting me sit here."

John raised his eyebrows and let his hands slip under the table.

"Well, I wouldn't use that term. You simply didn't wait for my response."

"Is it okay if I sit here?"

"Sure. Do as you like."

Okay, that was weird. But John shrugged it off and turned towards the bar to look around. Not a lot of blokes here tonight. Mostly couples or students, not really his hunting ground if you could call it that. The man sitting opposite to him however… No. He was not going to jump on the first one that talked to him. He didn't even know what this was supposed to be. It seemed like he simply needed a place to sit. John tried to catch a glimpse of this Sherlock guy in the corner of his eye.

Oh God, was he still looking at him? He kind of looked a little… no! Don't judge people like that, John!

_Sherlock _He let the name run through his mouth, not noticing that it escaped in a low whisper. His tongue played around with the letters. _Sheeerrrrlooockkk _Who named his kid like that nowadays? He probably got a lot of bullying in school. And if not for the name, maybe for the creepy looks he kept giving people. John tried to look over his shoulder without attracting attention. Yes, he was _still_ doing it!

"Would you like to rent a flat in Baker Street?"

John turned and looked at him in surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"_I said_, would you like to rent a flat in Baker Street?" Sherlock repeated, his tone drifting off a bit, letting him seem a little annoyed.

"Why?" John's heart was pumping adrenaline from now on. He was officially scared.

Why would he ask him something like that?

"Because you're looking for a flat and there's one in my building that's vacant at the moment. I know the housekee- I mean landlady. It's cheap, I can get you a good price if you'd like."

John shook his head with closed eyes and waved his hands in the air.

"Hold up! What? How? Why?" He stammered.

"Okay, easy. Just one question after the other." Now this guy seemed to mock him! Did he follow him? Was he a stalker or something?

"How do you know that I'm looking for a flat?"

"The same way I know that you're an invalid army doctor who just returned from Afghanistan – or Iraq, not quite sure about that point. The same way I know that you need a flat in – possibly the next week. And it has to be cheap and in the London area. I know that you can't go to friends for help and you don't have a good relationship with your family, you don't have a boyfriend at the moment. You have a limp, your therapist thinks it's psychosomatic. Quite correctly, I'm afraid. So… that leaves us with the remaining question: Would like to rent a flat in Baker Street?" Sherlock had rattled down the words faster than John could take them in. He only stopped before the question, repeating it loud and clear for him once more. What the hell was happening? How could he possibly know that even if he was following him?

"That's… astoundingly accurate and… a little scary. That was amazing!"

He saw Sherlock smirk a little. But he also noticed that he was trying to hide that by sipping on his Scotch but not really drinking anything. The idea dawned on John that the drink was probably just a prop. Something Sherlock needed to hold in his hands to seem normal in the pub.

"How… How did you do that?"

"Simple. Posture and your haircut say army. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists, so no sunbathing _but_ you've been abroad. When you stand your leg doesn't seem to bother you. The original circumstances of the injury must have been traumatic so invalided home from the war. You're sitting here on a saturday night alone at a pub, no friends who would be willing to help you with a flat then. You've been staring at the same Scotch since three and a half hours. You're looking for cheap accommodation, hence the apartment listing in the newspaper that's lying beside you but you're not willing to go to your family for help. - - I simply observe, John."

Again with the rattling, only his name remained, Sherlock dragging everything single letter so the word seemed to last for a decade. John felt like he had lost all ground beneath his feet.

"I don't know what to say."

"Just say you will take a look at the flat." Sherlock smiled and held out his glass like he was toasting John.

John was so overwhelmed he simply nodded and lifted his glass to clink it against Sherlock's. Then he took swallowed the Scotch in one go. What the hell! This night wouldn't get any better than this.

Sherlock stood up and threw some money on the table.

"Come on!"

John pushed the remaining Scotch down and looked up at Sherlock, totally confused.

"You want to go look at it _now_?"

"Sure, what's the problem?"

John shrugged again and got his jacket.

"But wait a minute. How did you know that I don't have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock smiled over his shoulder as he was already walking through the door of the pub.

"I didn't, but I know now."

He _really_ didn't know what he was getting into.

…

Sherlock showed him 221C Baker Street, a small flat that was pretty convenient for John at the moment. He still didn't know how Sherlock managed to get the landlady to this low rent though. It was probably better not to ask.

Now he was sitting here in Sherlock's flat, 221B Baker Street, and why was that again? He didn't know. He didn't know why Sherlock handed him another glass of Scotch by now and how they had come to laugh uncontrollably. He had thought that he had forgotten how to enjoy himself after the war. But it was still there. And he couldn't shake the feeling that Sherlock was coming on to him. They had been sitting here for over two hours, talking. He had moved from a chair across the room, to standing in front of the window, then he sat on the coffee table when finally Sherlock was now resting against the armrest of the couch John himself was sitting on.

John was probably the straightest gay in London. How could Sherlock even know that he was _approachable_. On top of that, John still couldn't quite grip how Sherlock knew all these other things. Even the psychosomatic limp! '_Observing' _that he was gay was probably a piece of cake when he knew that.

Then it happened. All these small things coming quickly after the other. The alcohol made him lose his desire to explain all this, he just wanted to feel now. And all the while Sherlock probably hadn't touched a drop of Scotch all night. John's confusion left and gave way for another feeling. Raw sexual lust. A hand on his thigh, soon he discovered that his hands had snuck up to Sherlock's hair, a tongue moving around in his mouth and it was all downhill from there.

_ …_

I was desperate FOR A FLAT! OKAY! Jeez… You really can't get that out of your head, huh? There's enough gay porn on the internet already, google it! You're not gonna get it here. This is not a love story.

And I think I'm probably kidding myself. I can see your smile, you're about to crack a laugh! You already know more than I do. Great.

_And my head told my heart  
>"Let love grow"<br>But my heart told my head  
>"This time no<br>This time no"_

Good God! What's it trying to do? Is this some kind of elaborate joke? Is this supposed to be foreshadowing? Who's writing this poor example of life that I live?

This is me – rolling my eyes.

* * *

><p>Hey! I'm the one fabricating this mess :P<p>

This story is toootally different from what I've been writing before, and it's been a lot of fun so far- we'll see how this goes! Each chapter will follow one episode of the show and joke around with the idea what would have happened if John was... well Sherlock's booty call :)

You may notice the song lyrics at the beginning, it's Mumford & Sons' "Winter Winds" if you care to listen to it! Beautiful song! ;)

I hope you enjoyed reading the first chapter, be nice and leave a review - I always get excited like a unicorn on LSD when I get one xD wow that was graphic oO okay, moving on! :)


	2. ASiP

I am really sorry it took me that long to get this done . I had quite a hard time writing this... I don't know why. I don't know if I am all that happy with it either. But judge for yourself! xP Enjoy, I guess :)

* * *

><p>Pink? I mean, <em>reeaally?<em>

So I've told you about him. Okay, fine, I'm fine with it. I swear. This is just sex. Just two normal gay guys having some fun, okay? I don't care if he isn't seeing me as a person, a human being. You know, with emotions and feelings and… oh you know what I mean! We've all been there. So you've never been in an abusive relationship? You're kidding! It's great, really. It's great. I don't want anything more. No, seriously, I don't!

Oh shut up! I know I'm sitting here eating jam as comfort food like normal people eat ice cream. You don't have to rub it in, you know?

Do I have to tell you again? I'm John BAMF Watson, okay? Sit your ass down or I'm gonna go sassy gay best friend all over you!

What am I doing to myself?

Stop it. Stop it now! Grab yourself a glass of red wine and a pillow to cry into if you'd like. I'm gonna tell you this story how it really went. My point of view. Honest and unmerciful. And if you're not going to need that pillow, I might.

You want to know what he calls himself? Mr Cheekbones. No- that's obviously not what he calls himself. Though I don't think he's unaware of the things he does to people, despite of how he acts most of the times. You know, oblivious to anything even remotely related to sex.

You know what he tells me? It helps him think. How it is even possible to think while we're doing … the things we are doing. I have no clue! Right. Back to his self-awarded profession. He's a '_consulting detective'_. I wanna wrinkle my nose while I splay out my pinkie and drink my tea when I hear those words. Look at me! I'm too cool to take a job that already exists, I'm going to invent myself one! Well, if you think about it. It fits really well. The big child that's living his childhood dream. "When I grow up I wanna be a pirate! Or a consulting detective!"

I didn't really know what the job description of a consulting detective looked like so I decided to picture him impersonating Miss Marple. Good enough. Weirdly enough, didn't stop my sex drive. I leave you to your own Freudian conclusions about that, thank-you-very-much!

Aaanyway! So I moved into 221C, met the wonderful Mrs Hudson and somehow _this_ happened. Do I need to specify? - - Why do I even ask!

…

Sherlock just walked into his flat without asking permission. This seemed to be the rule in John's life now. He strutted around the room, his head held high. He was probably absorbing and categorizing all the information in his head now. His arms were crossed over his chest. John sat there, in silence, not quite sure what to say, not quite sure if he even dared to say anything. The scene reminded him of his youth in boarding school; getting a random room inspection from a teacher, hoping – anxiety settling in his chest – it would pass the test. Apparently it did.

"Why aren't you working at the moment?"

"Sorry, what?" John thought he would get used to Sherlock's seemingly random questions. Guess again.

"The box with your medical equipment. It hasn't been opened for a while. You're not planning to open it in the nearer future, that's why you placed it on top of the closet. Just like you would store old memories from your past. Nothing more than memories?"

Wow. Sherlock looked deeper into his soul than John himself did at the moment. Far more than John even wanted to look. Suppression leading the way.

"I guess I'll need to start working again to pay my rent. - - How exactly do _you_ earn your money?"

Sherlock walked over to him, arms still crossed. Not one word passed his lips. He stood before John who was sitting on the armrest of the couch; John's face a mixture between confusion, fear and anticipation. Those eyes looked down on him. One second they seemed so cold, a moment later there was a tiny spark. A flame of something (maybe sexual lust?) flaring up. His long pale fingers traced the outline of John's collarbone over his t-shirt towards his neck. His fingers flipped through his hair, his pinkie resting for just a moment in the cup of his ear, making John shiver. Then his hands were locked at the back of his neck, drawing John into a kiss. He pushed him back onto the couch, his knee grazing John's crotch. Oh God, this was not going to end well.

…

You know how kisses can be like drinking sometimes? When you've been really thirsty? It was one of those kisses. Of course the motivation for this kiss wasn't love, it wasn't even lust, it wasn't power. He just needed his mind to go away for a moment.

We had met at a very strange time in my life. What am I saying? Aren't all times strange? Is there such a thing as normality? It doesn't exist. Especially not if you're Sherlock Holmes.

As we lay there afterwards, still panting from the _exercise, _he told me. How he had come to use the drugs of his own body, to play with them so they would follow his instructions. Kill the boredom, retrieve something from his mind, strangely even focus his brain sometimes. He told me this with scientific detachedness. Like he was talking about an experiment on some kind of animal. Only the animal was him. If you have a problem solving a puzzle once in a while, it is better to let the parts rest, not bother thinking about them for a short amount of time because your brain will still work on it in the background. The release he got from sex was far more deliberating than any synthetical drug could ever be. And of course, a lot healthier. He had come to accept that sometimes problems were taken care of between the sheets.

I heard him say all those things, the way he said them. And I just couldn't help but think that he didn't calculate every variable in this equation. He didn't know jack squat. Did he think he was some kind of god? Being able to manipulate chemicals in his own body? He would find out sooner than later.

I don't know if that thought made me feel superior. Is that even possible after you've voluntarily given in to someone else's needs? I felt like the mouse sitting in the corner, a big black cat towering over me, master of my fate. If I was required, I was taken out for _play_.

As I lay there beside him, I suddenly realized I couldn't get out of this. Even if I wanted to. I was in for good. If it was his decision or mine. I don't know.

- - Then _it_ happened again the next day. And the day after that. Then it stopped.

…

I felt like a tacky private investigator following a cheating husband. Thank God, I wasn't wearing a trench coat. Well, he had suddenly dropped out of my life like he had come into it. No texts in the middle of the night saying: "? – SH" Whoops. Maybe I shouldn't have told you that. I'm feeling slutty now.

So I followed him, heard him talking to Mrs Hudson about some kind of game that was on! Well, it definitely wasn't polo he was talking about. He left his riding crop at my flat.

It was the real deal. Did you never have the desire to yell "Follow that car!" at a cab driver like they do in the films? Well, I certainly made my dramatic appearance on that front. I hid behind cars as he finally got to his final destination, almost stumbling over an old lady with her poodle. Of course, I apologized to her! Aren't we feeling CSI London now! He was at a real crime scene, blue-white police tape and everything. And they just let him in! Although the chick that looked like she had a mop on her head was not amused. Oh, who's the sexy silver fox we have over there? I'm getting carried away. He was in there for about twenty minutes and then he stormed out, his long coat flying behind him. What the hell did he do in there? What can you do with a dead body in twenty minutes? Jeez guys, necrophilia much?

I think I probably need some training on the shadowing department because I lost him after that. But I just kept standing there, kind of paralysed. I know it wasn't impossible for him to really do the things that he had told me. I still dismissed it somehow. This wasn't a Famous Five novel after all. We were having sex, not playing detective. There was nothing innocent about this. And still, he managed to simultaneously convey sex and a sense of purity.

_Like a virgin touched for the very first time_

Seriously? Is my life turning into a musical? Anyway… I felt like I had suddenly slipped into a game of Cluedo, containing the atmosphere of a Hitchcock film. And I most certainly wasn't Miss Scarlet in the pretty red dress, no! This suspect was already dead and her wardrobe had turned into the colour of cotton candy. I felt more like Mrs White, the completely confused housekeeper who was much too old for all this running around. Damn my leg! Oh come on! Stop imagining me dressed like a maid! No, I'm not going to dust your shelves!

Suddenly, I saw him again. He was standing on the rooftop of a building opposite to the one he had just visited. This scene! He must have felt like freaking Batman! Climbing the roofs of London at night, the moon high above, shining on his dark figure, outlining every curve of his body. I should have looked at him like he was Dick Van Dyke! I should have imagined him disappearing into the next chimney! But he just stood there, the beautiful light of the moon and the wind of the cold London night giving him just the right look. In retrospect, this was probably a moment when the picture I had of him already kept slipping away. He wasn't just a man anymore. I realize how wrong I was and still am for thinking something like that. You can't put people on pedestals. They'll get even bigger than me than they already are. Kidding! Seriously, what I'm trying to tell you and mostly myself: he wasn't wearing a halo.

My phone went off in that second, making me jump. I jerked it out of my pocket. What was that? A small voice was speaking, a child, a young girl!

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore." blared from the small speakers. I just stared at my phone for a minute. The tiny thing getting heavier and heavier in my hand. No number on the screen. I already knew who it was anyway. But who the hell set _that_ as my ringtone?

"Hello?" First there was silence. Since when did Sherlock have a problem with articulating himself?

"Doctor John Watson?" Okay, that's not him.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"I have been informed that you've been having sexual intercourse with Sherlock Holmes." For a second the entire English language was lost in my brain. Did I really hear those words? Was I hallucinating?

"Who is this again?" I held the phone away from my ear to look at the number. Number withheld. Sherlock didn't tell anyone about us. Was someone spying on us? I carefully looked around the street. "How did you get this number?"

"Listen, I would like to offer you some money…"

"_WHAT_?" This was getting more ridiculous by the second. Now they really wanted to make me into a prostitute?

Nothing from the other end of the line.

"Who _the hell_ is this?"

"Only someone who is concerned."

"Yeah, well, to me you sound like someone who is a _FREAK_!" I hung up. There was really nothing else to do. How was I supposed to react to this? I guess… Dorothy, I mean my ringtone … was right. I am not in _Kansas_ anymore.

…

Sherlock middle name unknown Holmes is not your average gay man. He's not even an average man. To be honest, I sometimes even doubt that he is in fact human. The way he can look at you and look right through you. It seems like he's reading your mind – which he's not – but that's not even the point. He just doesn't see _you. _He sees an object of his deduction. You might as well be a used phone in his hands. That's why I am not doing this. As much as I enjoy the other things, _that_ scares the living hell out of me. And the way things are… I hope I'm not _disposable_. I feel like I can be honest with you guys.

There are times I feel like I'm trapped in a tiny interrogation room. With him. A big white light bulb buzzing in front of me. I can barely see a thing. My eyes are so blinded by the light that I can't see what's behind that lamp. Him. I can only _feel_ him moving around. His presence becomes almost unbearable. And my palms are sweating, my heart is beating really fast, my pupils try to dilate when I look out of the bright light but they just don't seem to focus. It's not possible. And yet he can see EVERYTHING. Every tiny muscle twitching in my face, the drops of sweat that are running down my temple. And he could play the bad cop. He could. He could bang both of his hands on the table and yell at me: "Tell me! It is your fault! It's on your hands! What were your motives?" But he simply does not do that. He would never do that. And of course, I wouldn't be able to answer him. Because just like every other tortured man I don't know the answer myself. I don't know if he's just oblivious or if he ignores this aspect of our… whatever you may call it.

And yet, even so he probably knows more about me than my own mother. I feel safe with him. Not threatened.

I'm probably getting some kind of Stockholm syndrome but it makes me kind of proud that he chose me. – well, most nights I feel like that. He probably did _choose _me. I have something he wants. No, not just the thing between my legs, you dirty minds! I know it sounds weird but he doesn't insult me as much as other people. I don't know if I'm the first he does this with, I'd like to think like that but it's probably naïve.

…

"Let's have dinner." He simply said. I was perplexed. I didn't _want_ to say yes. When I think about it, I actually didn't say yes at all. He just left my flat and somehow I ended up following him. Started shadowing him again like I had in the past few days. Only now he knew I was following him. Huh. He's Sherlock Holmes, he probably knew all along anyway.

We went to a tiny Italian restaurant.

I am NOT his date. Get that? But the candles were there on the table anyway. Did he bring his "buddies" to this restaurant every time? Should I ask this Angelo guy? And why the fuck am I behaving like a jealous boyfriend?

I tried to tell myself I just wanted to know more about his sexual past. Okay, that doesn't sound any better. I just wanted to know which type of sexual disease I could expect, okay?

Why not simply ask him? Ask him, you say? Do you know who we are talking about! Of course he would answer, and he wouldn't lie either. I think that was the problem. I didn't want the truth, I wanted something soothing, that would set my anxious mind to rest. I wanted to be fobbed off, instant gratification. And the most dominant part of Sherlock Holmes is his painful honesty. What can I say? I asked him anyway.

"Do you come here often?"

He didn't even look at me. He kept staring out of the window.

"Sorry, are you trying to make conversation?"

"Errr… yeah. - - Is this your usual … you know…?"

"Date place?" I was startled. Until then I didn't think – okay, I didn't hope – it was a date. Did he think that? Was Sherlock Holmes' idea of a date, sharing the same table without saying a word? The silence which bugged me so much that night, I came to cherish later. The silence that lies between us sometimes is the most beautiful thing, because you can feel comfortable with it. But that night it was making me nervous as hell.

"Is this?"

"What?"

"A date?"

"Look, John. I'm flattered by your interest. But anything that goes beyond sex… - - I consider myself married to my work."

A big sigh escaped my lips. And yet I couldn't help to shake that tiny feeling of regret that washed through me at his answer. It had the potential to be dangerous. Life-threatening.

"You want to know something, don't you?"

All of my self-esteem had left me. I wanted to retort with a smart ass response. Of course, being quick-witted always leaves you in the situations you need it the most. And you sit there, hours later pondering – your brain deciding to give you a million of possible intelligent comebacks. I know what I would say if I was in that situation right now. "That's a good deduction, Sherlock.", laying thick on the sarcasm. But maybe I had to earn that first.

All I said was "yes". And I let him ask the question himself. He was in charge. Not because I wasn't on a par with him. I never was and am not now his disciple. I say that I follow him but I don't _follow_ him.

"You want to know if you're the only one, right? If there have been others like you?"

I nodded. It wouldn't have made a difference if I had said anything then anyway.

"You are the only one. There has never been someone _like_ _you."_

He was stretching the last words so much, it seemed to change the meaning of the whole sentence. He could have meant anything.

In retrospect, I realize that it was the very first time he acknowledged me for what I really was. He actually expressed an emotion with that. He probably didn't realize himself.

Why didn't he tell me to stop following him? He didn't. Why didn't he say he wanted to be left alone, he only wanted me in reach of his bedroom? He didn't. Why did he ask me to come along? He did. Why do you have dinner with someone if you're not hungry?

And suddenly I'm running. Yes, running! Real running, not limping! I even jumped over roofs with him. Sometimes you can't be the one left behind at the restaurant. The date that didn't go as expected. I didn't know who we were chasing but I didn't give a damn. I never felt more alive.

I didn't care about the police at his flat, the fact that it was a drugs bust or the eyes in the microwave.

…

We stood there laughing and panting from the running. God, it felt so good. He finally really looked at me. He even made a joke. I guess, I was in. In his world now. No turning back, Dr Watson. Of course, the moment had to be destroyed.

A drugs bust! After all he had told me of the way he used sex, I didn't have a hard time believing it. And I was introduced to the silver fox, known as Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"So, who's this Sherlock?" The other guy from the crime scene was there too, and the annoyed girl. She still didn't look very happy, even though she just got permission to dig around in Sherlock's stuff.

"Nobody. Would you put those back in the fridge, Donovan!" I could see how uncomfortable he was. Not just because a whole police department was rummaging through his flat. There were too many people. The anxiety of being confronted with this social situation, I could read it on his face. Was this really the problem though? He kept talking about someone called Rachel.

"You're cute with your sweater. Did he pick you up at a flea market? You know what he does right?"

"Excuse me?" Was this Donovan chick really serious? It wasn't just overwhelming to him. I was pretty lost too. Eyeballs in the microwave-kind of lost.

"What do you do instead of drugs then, Sherlock?"

He was pacing around the flat til he realized the question Lestrade had just asked him. He stopped dead and looked at me. Lestrade and the other two fell into hysterical laughter. This. Was. Just. Great.

"Oh! You're his _boy_friend?" What was this now? Bullying made by Scotland Yard?

"Does he take you out for dinner? Oh no, he probably cooks for you himself, maybe the head in the fridge?" Head? A human head?

"I am _NOT_ his boyfriend!" Everyone, even I could hear the slight question mark at the end of this sentence. They were practically rolling on the floor from laughter.

"Shut up! Everyone shut up! I need to think!" Sherlock yelled through the flat.

Suddenly he took a step towards me and looked into my eyes. I could see out of the corner of my eye how Donovan was suppressing a laugh. It probably looked like he was about to kiss me.

"John, if you were dying, if you were being murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

_Don't stand so close to me –_ Call the Police! No, not the band. Oh wait, they are already here. Mr No-personal-space has escaped again.

"Err… I don't know. Please don't kill me?"

"Oh come on!"

While Sherlock was already blabbering away again, I stood there and thought about the last few days. And his question. What would I say? Would I even mind? Before that '_fateful'_ night at the bar, before I moved into 221C, I probably wouldn't have cared about how and when my life would end. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't suicidal! But I was numb. I had no reason to wake up in the morning, no one to care for, no one that cared for me. Now? Not only was my sex life better than ever. I felt like I was about to find something huge. You know these moments in a film, when you can feel that something life-changing is going to happen to the character. The air feels charged; you're not able to stop it. Life doesn't give you a chance to breath. You can stop and try to think, but there is no way in stopping what is planned out. This is not a film, they don't stop moving around me, the camera zooming in on my face just because I am trying to process everything. It felt like an adventure, surreal in this aspect. I thought life wouldn't give me the opportunity again. I looked at Sherlock, putting on his coat now, turning his coat collar up. I couldn't really grasp it yet. There was something there, this energy around him. Like I was supposed to notice something when I looked at him. But it wasn't quite there yet, I wasn't quite allowed to reach out and see the truth. As I thought all this, the world kept moving, this is not a film, I told you - and he was gone.

"Where did he go?"

Lestrade and the team were packing up.

"He said he wanted to go for a walk. The GPS couldn't find the murderer."

"Is he going to find him?"

"I don't know"

"Well, you know him better than I do."

"I don't know him _that way._" Lestrade winked at me as I rolled my eyes and they all left the flat. The weak smile that the Detective had given me was imprinted in my head. He was alright. He cared more about Sherlock than he wanted to admit. I looked at the computer screen where the GPS signal was moving. Maybe I cared more about Sherlock than I wanted to admit myself.

…

What am I doing? Why am I even here? The cold metal of the gun felt weird in my hand. The feeling was there again. I could here the battlefield around me. Only this time, it was silent. A different kind of battlefield. Only two men competing in a fight til death. Well, not if I could do something about that. How could I feel like this? How was it so easy to pull the trigger? I didn't want him to see me. Why? I don't know. I didn't want to seem attached to him. Even though I already knew I was.

"Good shot."

Sure, he knew. His smile revealed how he saw me now.

"No, I wouldn't have taken the pill. I knew you'd turn up."

Did he? I was his. I definitely thought that. But that wasn't quite the whole truth. He was in this just like I was. Maybe it wasn't quite as obvious what he did for me as what I did for him. But it was there.

"You know that your brother offered me money. Your _mommy_ would not be amused about that, I assume." I had recognized his voice immediately as Mycroft had approached Sherlock and me.

"Yeah, he tends to do that. You hungry?"

"Are you asking me out on a date again?" We both laughed wholeheartedly.

"I know a good Chinese restaurant. I can predict fortune cookies."

"No, you can _not_!"

"But I _did_ know you were in the army!"

…

So, I told you a lot tonight. I tried to make it seem fun. The truth is, everything I told you about our _relationship _is probably a lie. I joke around and tell you that he _owns _me but it's just not right. And I don't have feelings for him. I don't really! I promise! Okay, believe whatever you want. You can make your own deductions, what it meant when he laid his arm around my shoulders when we walked away from the crime scene, giggling. I don't care anymore. Let it be sex and danger and … fun. It's everything you want in entertainment nowadays, isn't it?

But the only true way you can describe us is … we are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. A team, I guess.

* * *

><p>I'm not so sure about this story anymore... grrr... xP well, let's see if the next chapter has a better "flow" ^^<p> 


End file.
